A Small Matter of Immortality
by White Star 2
Summary: One hundred years after Clyde Bruckman's death, there's a private little wake being held for him by the one person who will likely never forget him.


Title: A Small Matter of Immortality  
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)  
Rating: PG  
Classification: V  
Distribution: Just ask.  
Spoilers: DeadAlive  
Keywords:  
  
Summary: One hundred years after Clyde Bruckman's death, there's   
a private little wake being held for him by the one person who   
will likely never forget him.  
  
Disclaimer: They ain't mine. If they were, I'd be rich and   
famous.  
  
Author's Note: I wrote this... a long time ago. I just found it   
on my hard drive today. Originally, it was supposed to be a   
post-Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose story to end all post-CBFR   
stories. And then, when I got into it, I realized that the   
possibilities are so endless that this is one type of story that   
will live forever, and keep changing as the series goes on.  
  
---  
  
"Immortality is the condition of a dead man who doesn't believe   
he is dead."  
--Henry Louis Mencken  
  
September 21, 2095  
  
I really shouldn't drink, I tell myself. It's not healthy. But   
what's the worst that could happen? I might die? But today is an   
anniversary, I tell myself. I'm entitled. And still, my   
conscious mind will not acknowledge the circumstances and   
rebuttals. It's the same dialogue I have had with myself every   
ten years.  
  
For the past hundred years.  
  
Any reasonable person who heard my real age would probably have   
the same reaction as I'd had a hundred years ago to Clyde   
Bruckman's final words to me. "So, how do I die?" I bent over   
the table before walking out the door. I was ready for a vague   
and ambiguous speech at best, or descriptions of bullets and   
shootouts at worst. But instead came two simple, frightening   
words. "You don't."  
  
I laughed then. I guess I used to be a reasonable person. Then   
things went strange. I could go the dramatic storyteller's way   
and tell you that I had never been the same since the moment he   
uttered those words, that the chill that ran down my back   
foreshadowed what the next hundred years would feel like.  
  
But that's not true. Nothing was further from the truth, really.   
Sure, I did hold a private wake for Mr. Bruckman. Nothing to do   
with visions of the future or predictions of death. Just   
expressing my sympathy. I really did feel for that man.   
  
But eventually, a few glasses later, I was just tipsy enough to   
consider extreme possibilities. Even then, drunk and dead tired,   
I waved off the possibility. I usually refer to myself in that   
timeperiod as "a bit close-minded."  
  
My theory has always been that to understand immortality you   
have to experience death. But that's not how it was for me,   
really. I was an FBI agent. I saw death almost every day. I was   
almost indifferent to it. When I lost my baby, that piece of me,   
I didn't feel it. And even when Charley died, I didn't feel it.   
Not even that little pinch of survivor's guilt that I got to   
know so well much later.  
  
No, I think the first time I felt it was when Mulder died. His   
abduction, months before, got me thinking about a lot of things.   
And the memories that flooded in were mostly about me making a   
good mother and what am I going to do if I don't find Mulder and   
how am I supposed to work with a skeptic like Agent Doggett, and   
maybe once I thought about the likelihood that I'll outlive him.   
But I didn't let that thought linger.  
  
And then I found him. And he was dead. And my heart felt that   
pinch and my body felt that shiver, and I screamed and I cried.   
And months later, when I had him again, when I had him in my   
arms, my tears mingling with his, I couldn't help thinking what   
it would be like to go through that again. What it would be like   
to really lose him.  
  
And I had no idea.  
  
Strangely enough, I can't remember the date. I'm not growing   
senile in my old age, even though that's what you'd expect from   
someone who's one hundred and thirty one years old. It just   
never mattered all that much to me. Not that his death was   
inconsequential. Just the opposite. And at first I used to spend   
that one day a year feeling miserable and reminding myself how   
much I should miss him and that moving on was wrong. Then three   
hundred and sixty four days of emptiness.  
  
But over the years I found the one day meaningless. I hadn't set   
foot past the gates of the Arlington National Cemetery since his   
funeral. Once a year my credit card was charged for the delivery   
of flowers. Grief over the death of one's best friend isn't   
something a day can be assigned to. And over the years, I just   
forgot.  
  
....not what happened. I could never forget that. It was too   
haunting. He had a serene expression on his face when they   
wheeled him into an OR. At least, that's how it looked through   
the blood and the neckbrace. They didn't even get to try to   
remove the bullet. And, out in the hall, I saw him - his ghost,   
his disembodied soul - standing there at the door. And I knew. I   
knew before they came to tell me.  
  
And the days after that... sometimes, when pain is too intense,   
emotions just turn off. I stood at his funeral, thinking of   
autopsy results. It wasn't until later, when Bruckman's words   
came back to haunt me. It was then, three days after that awful   
night, that I cried over Mulder for the first time.  
  
That was June of 2003. And I thought things couldn't get any   
worse. When Mom died, I realized I was right. Two years after   
Mom, Skinner. And after that, Bill. Then, one morning, I woke up   
and realized that I was alone in the world.  
  
I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror that day. Not at   
the brokenhearted woman dressed as well as a retired   
fifty-something-year-old FBI agent could afford. What was left   
under all that. And I found clear skin and eyes that still   
sparkled, though not with the same brightness that they did   
around Mulder. I eyed my nude reflection for almost half an   
hour. I looked young.  
  
That was the day I decided to die. And I did. Not physically, I   
would never. I don't know if I even could. But three months   
later, Dana Scully died under mysterious circumstances. Her body   
was never found. No one was there to bury her, and only a   
mysterious entity with access to government files saw to her   
papers - her will was carried out, her death certificate signed.   
  
And I was free.  
  
A month or so later a Diana Green appeared out of nowhere in   
sunny California. She just happened to be there when the   
colonization was about to begin and helped fight it off with   
information that she'd recovered from places unknown. Then,   
after saving the world, she, too, died.  
  
In her place, Phoebe White was born in Nova Scotia, Canada. She   
lived out loud, probably more than I should have allowed myself.   
But still, I couldn't resist living like a teenager again. I   
certainly managed to look the part when I tried. It's all a   
matter of clothes and attitude, really. And the red hair gave   
the final touch. She was the one who celebrated the thirtieth   
anniversary of Clyde Bruckman's death, and the liquor store   
clerk wasn't convinced that my years outnumbered the nineteen   
required for buying the bottle of whisky.  
  
Phoebe White lived to be forty two. After her came Kristen   
Berenbaum, the biology teacher. I never thought I'd teach again.   
But it was a spur of the moment decision and I went with it.   
When I couldn't take the dullness anymore, she died in an   
automobile accident, and I moved to Mexico.  
  
I lived there for a while, nameless and content. That, too,   
bored me eventually, and I trekked down all the way to   
Argentina, stopping to learn from every witch doctor and miracle   
man on the way. I was in no rush.  
  
Ten years ago I moved to Paris to devote myself to the one thing   
I had left - God. It's amazing how much more spiritual and   
fulfilling faith is without the threat of eternal damnation. It   
brought me peace and solace.  
  
But I knew even that wouldn't last forever. My attention span is   
too short to spend eternity. And it's only been a hundred years.   
How would I spend a hundred more? There are times that I long to   
go back to being Dana Scully, even for a day. She's the only one   
that still burns and aches within me, begging to be let out.  
  
And she's the only one who must stay buried forever.  
  
The french doors behind me open, and a voice that bears a slight   
resemblance to the monotone I miss hearing so much mumbles,   
"Marita." I take my time turning around. I never did get used to   
that name. "What are you doing out here this late?"  
  
"Nothing," I lie. He wouldn't notice. I've gotten good at it;   
good enough to pass a polygraph.  
  
He looks at me and leans against the glass door. His bare skin   
leaves damp sweat marks on the glass. It's hot here in Egypt and   
even in nothing but his underwear he's sweating. "Really?" he   
wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "To me it looks   
like you're having a drink. Without me." He smiles, then lets   
out a sound that's a hideous mix of a yawn, a sigh, and a "huh".   
"Marita Ephisian is drinking. I never thought I'd see the day."  
  
"It's a special day," I say. "An anniversary of sorts."  
  
"Of what?"  
  
"Oh, nothing that would matter to you."  
  
He chuckles. "In that case, pour me a glass and come inside."  
  
So I do.  
  
--- 


End file.
